For my funeral, I want the classic New Orlean’s Jazz package please.  I want my coffin in a horse drawn carriage led by jazz musicians.  Following behind, I want weeping mourners all dressed in black with veils and everything.  At the grave site, I expect there to be old women wailing and moaning, and I really like at least one of them to fling themselves on my casket.  If you have to pay for this effect, please do so.  It’s important to me.  One last request, please tuck a couple of good books in the casket with me.  Make it at least two – there might be a long wait and I’m a fast reader.

Why am I mentioning this now?  No, I haven’t had any disturbing news from a doctor or anything like that.  It has become the Sister’s goal to whip my first novel into shape – AGAIN.  It’s been a year and 1/2 since I finished it – the first time – and we’ve learned so much since then that we can see big flaws and plot holes, etc that need to be fixed.  I have a plan for obtaining an agent/editor so while we wait impatiently for the mechinations to fall into place, now is the time for the It’s Clearly Love overhaul.  We’ve given ourselves 2 months tops.

Here’s the thing. It’s killing me.  Ava is brutal.  I know she’s taken a chain saw to the book with love and its best interest at heart, but still, it’s excruciating and I want to throwup.  I once read that your book is like a child: you feed it and nourish it and take good care of it, watch it grow and when it’s all done you have to kill it.  Not that I’m advocating killing children, but you see the point right?  She’s killing my baby!  I know I’m over reacting but, regardless, I’m freaking out.

I need a shot of something stiff and a deep cleansing breath…….if you need me, I’ll be sucking my thumb in the fetal position over there.

Yesterday evening, Sassy and I were working on her homework. 

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hmmm”

“Have you ever heard of an éclair?”

Have I ever heard of an éclair? Seriously?  I’ve been to 12 step programs over eclairs.

“Yes, I’ve heard of eclairs.  Why?”

“They’re really good,” Sassy tells me in all seriousness.  Her face was solemn, as if she was imparting something as serious and life altering as the Rosetta Stone.

“Yes, they are,” I agree.  “Where did you eat one?” 

“Clarissa had one in her lunch.  She shared some with me.” 

Clarissa is obviously a nice girl.  I knew she wouldn’t have tasted such a thing at home.  There is no way I’d be sharing something like an éclair.  I buy those when I’m alone and eat them in the car in shame and by myself, as it should be.

When I got up this morning, in bed with me was My Honey, Sassy and The Bandit, and Roscoe (aka The Idiot Dog). No wonder my back hurts. I unwedged my arm to reach over to shut off the alarm and heard a distinctive crackling noise. I found an unopened granola bar in my bed. I knew where it came from.  The Bandit does this a lot; he gets out of bed in the middle of the night and brings snacks back to bed. Usually, my bed. I snorted with annoyance and took the granola bar with me when I left the room.

I was in the shower when My Honey woke up the kids. With his eyes still closed, The Bandit felt around the sheets near where he was sleeping, and asked in a groggy voice, “Where’s my granola bar?”

Of course, My Honey had no idea what he was talking about.

The Bandit insisted that he had a granola bar.

My Honey asked him, “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming about granola bars?”

The Bandit replied, “I don’t think so.”  I just love how he wasn’t 100% sure.

It’s the strangest habit. When he’s going to spend an overnight at either grandma’s house, I always have to check his backpack. It’s usually loaded with food instead of toys. He is insistent that he might need a snack while he’s there. I assure you that neither of his grandmothers starve the children when they visit. In fact, they always get blueberry pancakes from the grandmas. My Honey and I find that suspicious since we never got those from our mothers. Anyway, the boy always acts like we’re taking him off to prison camp or a survival trek in the rain forest the way he sneaks food.

Yesterday I was in a really foul mood. It was one of those days when you think all is fine and peachy with the world, and then you have to start interacting with other people and it turns out, not so much. I was beginning to worry that I might actually bite someone. I considered calling my veterinarian to see if my vaccinations were current. I was snipey, and mean, and at one point, I loudly announced that it might be best for people to just stay the hell away from my cubicle.

For the sake of the innocent, and not so innocent, for crying out loud, get me a book deal so I don’t have to go out among the masses. Let me stay safely ensconced in the quietness of my own home where the only people I feel violent towards would be the local newscasters. Does anyone else have this problem? I can’t even watch the local news anymore. Seriously, those people make me crazy.

It was a very peaceful weekend at the Bright Compound.  Sassy and The Bandit and Roscoe, the Idiot Dog mostly behaved themselves.  They spent Saturday night with their Grandmother so My Honey and I could refuel our batteries.  Let’s send a big shout out to the universe for helpful Grandmas everywhere.

I finished a friend’s newly released book.  She is Sherrill Quinn,  go check her out.  She is a good story teller, and a very generous mentor. 

The Sisters also attended our writers group this weekend.  There, we were given a great heads up from another successful writer about a really brilliant way that she has found to conduct rewrites and edits on her work.  At this point, I’m looking for anyway at all to make this process less excruciating.  It’s one thing when you’re only rewriting a short story, but a full length novel of 90,000+ words is a huge convoluted, confusing mess that makes me want to scream and cry.  We’re going to give it a try this week and see how we can mold the procedure into something that works for us.

If it’s successful, and I have no idea why it wouldn’t be, then we’ll give you a full rundown on the procedure.  After all, we’re here to help and encourage.

Last night when I was getting Sassy and The Bandit out of their bath, they were squabbling. The Bandit looked at his sister and said, “Sissy, you’re a rotten ass!” I turned to him, “What did you say?”. He repeated it, but I still wasn’t sure I heard correctly. I asked again, and he repeated it again. I asked a third time, just to be really sure and he said it again, emphasising every syllable, “Rooootteeeen AAAAAssssssss.”
So I asked him where he heard that. His response, “Oh, it just came from my heart.”

My Honey is demanding a public apology in behalf of The Idiot Dog; his name is Roscoe (the dog, not My Honey,).  For once in his life, Roscoe exhibited appropriate dog-like behavior.  That doesn’t detract from his bizarre conduct, but I will have to give him props for millions of years of evolution kicking in and doing what his instincts and breeding demanded of him.  He is a coonhound, and his breed’s job is to “tree” raccoons or bobcats or what have you and bay and bay at the bottom of the tree so the hunter knows where he is and can shoot the prey.

I want to sneak in a little back story.  Our neighbor moved away without taking her pregnant cat.  I am petitioning a special seat in hell for her right next to the furnace and a fat guy with a flatulence problem.  The kittens were born under our shed.  I’ve managed to catch one of them and give it away, but at least one other kitten and the mama cat continue to elude us.  We have a tiny cat door built into a window for My Assistant to climb in and out of.  He likes to do a little sun basking and flower smelling once in a while.  Now the window is too small for him; he’s become considerably wider since the little doorway was installed.  To be honest, My Honey and I have a bit of a cruel streak, and we enjoy watching him wiggle in and out of it.  It looks like he’s being birthed.  I know we’re mean, but we gotta take our kicks where we can.  His food bowl used to be inside on that window ledge, but that stray cat was caught several times coming in to steal his food.  Now he’s fed in the laundry room.

Last night, when we went to bed around midnight, Roscoe was acting very strangely.  He was running up and down the hallway and crying.  I really didn’t think much of it because, well, because he’s him.  I often worry that he doesn’t have a brain in his head.  I just figured this was more of his annoying and bizarre behavior.  I stuck my head under the pillow and cried myself to sleep.

So this morning at around 4:30, Roscoe is in the living room baying like he’s never bayed before.  If you’ve never heard a hound dog bay, let me describe it.  You’ve all heard hounds howl and, quite frankly, I think it’s adorable.  Probably, because Roscoe doesn’t do much howling.  Baying is another thing all together.  The sound is sort of BRRRROOOOOUUUUUUUWWWWWWWWW!  He does it long and loud and with a great deal of dedication.  The vibration is so strong it sets the doorbell off and the windows rattle.  I’m not kidding.  With all the baying, and screaming from the kids, and the yelling from the parents, I’m sure the neighbors wonder what the hell is going on over here most of the time.  We might be the annoying neighbors which is saying A LOT with the Special Needs (mental) home next door, the drunk neighbors across the street, and the skater punks on my block.  However, I’d like the record to show that the police have never been called to MY home.

Sorry. I digress.  Its 4:30, there is baying from the living room, it’s still dark.  I get up all bleary eyed and crabby and try to get him to go outside and he flat out will not go.  I say, “FINE” and stomp back to bed.  Again, I want to remind you, I assume nothing is really happening because, up to this point, it has been universally believed that Roscoe should be wearing a helmet.  By 6:00 I abandon hope and get in the shower.  I hear all kinds of chaos coming from outside the bathroom.  When I emerge, Sassy is delighted to inform me that, “Roscoe treed a cat in the living room”.  I inquire, “Not our cat?” and she tells me, “No, the stray, black cat that pees in Dad’s boat.”  Oh.  So apparently, Roscoe has the cat treed on top of a very tall lamp.  Can’t you just see it: the lamp swaying back and forth, the cat hissing and spitting, and Roscoe baying for the whole world to know of his brilliance.  The cat got away.  We’ll set traps and take her to the Humane Society.  Hopefully, it has learned its lesson and she will darken our kitty door no more.

Let me clear my throat and do the apology justice.  *ahem*, Roscoe I deeply regret that I called you stupid, and an idiot, and a moron, and cursed at you.  Clearly, you know what you’re doing when it comes to cats and lamps.  I am sorry.  Now stay off the damn table.

So the writers group the Quill Sisters belong to is part of the Tucson Festival of Books.  Last March was the 1st Annual and it was a rousing success.  All three of the Quills volunteered at our booth last year, and fully intend to do that again.  Because the 2010 2nd Annual will be even bigger, the romance writers colalition is getting some really big names to speak on various topics next year.  Names that made the three of us squeal with glee and maybe even pee a little.  Names like Brenda Novak and Julia Quinn.  JULIA QUINN.  As you may have noted from previous lists we are big fans.  In fact, I firmly believe that you thank/blame Ms. Quinn for the fact that we all write romance novels. 

Back to the point.  New releases from the authors already slated to speak at the festival were brought to the last meeting.  We were asked to read them and pass them on so that we could speak intelligently of their work, and help drum up excitement. We’re looking for  a big turnout for romance at the festival.  Us romance writers are still trying to prove our worth in the “legitimate” writing circles, and we really want a big showing.

I chose to read a book by Jennifer Ashley– The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie.  I highly recommend it.  Rarely have I been so affected by a book.  I’ve thought about it for days afterward.  Stop off and pick yourself up a copy – it’s in paperback.  You won’t be sorry.  Ms. Ashley has managed to soup up the tried and true formula, and given her hero a twist on the “damaged” bad boy that I wouldn’t have necessarily thought would have worked.  It most definitely does.  I am delighted to say that it is the first of a series and I will wait anxiously for the rest. 

The Quills are always studying the craft of writing and working on that hook, and honestly, I don’t know that I’ve ever read a better first 5 pages in my life.  I was totally, completely, beyond a doubt hooked.  I aspire to be that good.

Good for you, Ms. Ashley.  I look forward to meeting you in March.

Seriously, go out and buy her book.  And then read the rest of them.  You’ll thank me.

Sassy started 1st grade today.  My baby’s growing up.  Deep sigh.  I was sure that I’d have to do that thing when you have to squeegie the kid off your leg in order to leave her there, but I was both delighted and saddened because she was fine without me.  It turns out that a very good friend from her Kindergarten class is sitting right next to her.  I hope that works out.  If it had been me, it would have lasted all of 15 minutes into the first day before the teacher would have moved me.  I talked a lot.  Still do.  You may have noticed.  It just turns out I have a lot to say.  Most of it entertaining, I hope, much of it silly.

So I was gathering the mile long list of stuff that she was to bring to school – notebooks, crayons, 2 shoe boxes (???), water bottle, etc.  One item on the list was 36 sharpened wooden pencils.  No big deal.  I purchased them on sale at Target.  But as I was putting everything together for her the night before, I realized they weren’t sharpened.  Well, if there’s one thing I am, it’s a rule follower (no snickering!) so I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to accomplish this at 11:00 at night.  No one seems to know whatever happened to the electric pencil sharpener.  I considered whittling on the front porch.  After all, I do have a hound dog and whittling ought to come naturally to me, but no.  I assumed there would be a maiming and Sassy doesn’t need a nine fingered mother bringing bloody pencils to school.  I finally found two little twisty sharpeners.  You know the ones.  You stick one end in and twist and twist and twist until your arm falls off.  I want you to know that 36 pencils is one hell of a lot of pencils to sharpen.  I think I have tendinitis now.

I think I need an exterminator.